“Come, Stanyan,” called out Hardy, “what’s the use of stumbling around there in the wet bushes? We shall get soaking wet, and I am always liable to have an attack of rheumatism when I get wet.” The ’squire was already unhitching his horse, and a minute later Rob had the satisfaction of hearing the two riding away. “Good riddance!” said Rob, under his breath, as he started to return to the coal camps. When Rob got back to the sod houses containing his friends he found the others anxiously awaiting him. A plain supper, prepared after considerable trouble, there being only a couple of small pails in which to do the cooking, was ready to be eaten by the firelight, and while our hero joined in with the others, he told what he had seen and overheard at the old red house, excepting the statements of the two men in regard to the place being haunted. Rob was wise enough to believe that no good would come of mentioning such a fact, if it were true, which he did not even entertain. After supper further preparations were made for the comfort, such as could be provided, for the two parties. The united numbers made fourteen persons in the little band of strangers in a strange land. These consisted of Robert Bayne, our hero, and his mother, a kind-hearted woman into whose life had seemed to come all the shadows and sufferings arising from the evil doings of a husband who was a fugitive from justice. It was not really known whether Mr. Bayne was living or not, but if he were, there was a price set on his liberty, and his wife breathed easier in his absence than she could possibly have done knowing his whereabouts. Mrs. Bayne had pinned her faith on Rob, and hoped and looked forward to a future freer from care than her past twenty years had been. But, in spite of her outward cheerfulness the shadow of the past still darkened her life. Then there were Mrs. Willet, the invalid widow, and her only daughter, Josephine, or Joe, as she was generally called. Joe was one year younger than Rob, of a cheerful disposition and a willing worker, with a judgment remarkable for one of her years. Mr. James Little, still, as he believed, suffering from an injury received when thrown from a heavy truck wagon in New York City; his wife Sarah, and their children--Lawrence and Mary--aged, respectively, eighteen and sixteen, made up another family. We shall soon learn more of them. A kind old lady was “Aunt Vinnie,” whose only care--and that was enough--was to look after her “boys,” Tom and Jerry. The history of these three was quite unknown, except that Aunt Vinnie claimed the boys to be the children of a sister who had died when they were very young. They were twins. At some time the three must have had surnames, but none of their present companions ever heard them spoken.